


Disguises

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Meeting the Parents, No TAB spoilers, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Irene Adler appears in the doorway of 221B Baker Street, at first Sherlock considers her a figment from his mind palace. That is certainly the more logical conclusion, compared with the ludicrous option of Irene Adler actually being in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 8/17/14-6/19/16
> 
> Thanks to Beverly and Tali for looking versions of this over. To Lyra for encouragement and suggestions. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Yes, this is complete. I know this first chapter is mostly a short teaser, but I'll post the next shortly. No long waits this time, I promise.

When Irene Adler appears in the doorway of 221B Baker Street, at first Sherlock considers her a figment from his mind palace. That is certainly the more logical conclusion, compared with the ludicrous option of Irene Adler actually being in London.

 

Almost immediately though, small details start to rankle. The fit of her coat is incorrect - something about the proportion that he cannot quite account for as he runs through scenarios and details in his mind.

 

When she sheds the coat, he knows with absolute certainty that she is actually standing in front of him.

 

He would never imagine Irene Adler eight and a half months (33 weeks, approximately 231 days) pregnant. The very idea seems so improbable that it must be real. Two seconds before she walked in, he would have dismissed such a thing as impossible.

 

His mind stalls for a moment on that impossibility, cataloguing her overall health and the state of the pregnancy and _his, obviously_ \- an idea which threatens to derail his entire cognitive processes - before his mind doubles speed to make up for its lapse.

 

"Oh," he says, and it's not much of a mystery after all. "Rio de Janeiro."

 

233 days, then. Exactly.

 

…


	2. Rio de Janeiro: 233 days earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnival is one of the last places in the world Sherlock Holmes would ever choose to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one line that's a direct reference to Babylon 5 (bonus points if you can spot it).
> 
> The reference to Japanese sunscreen is in honour of my friend, Megs.
> 
> Sadly, I've never been to Brasil and I don't speak Portuguese, so forgive any mistakes (or better yet: tell me, so I can fix them). I researched as best I could.
> 
> This is the chapter that earns the rating.

Carnival is one of the last places in the world Sherlock Holmes would ever choose to visit. The sheer volume of people alone is enough to pique his irritation. They are all under dressed and overly friendly, making negotiating through the heat and the crowd even more unpleasant than it normally would have been. The entire event is predicated upon the gathered masses dumbing down their already minimal intellects with drugs and debauchery.

 

It is everything that Sherlock Holmes hates.

 

Which, naturally, makes it Irene Adler's preferred locale.

 

A pair of arms wrap around Sherlock from behind and he spins, annoyed, prepared to disentangle yet another festival-goer with no sense of personal boundaries.

 

Irene Adler stands in front of him, wearing next to nothing and bedecked in bronze and diamonds and feathers. She smirks, amused at his obvious discomfit, and wraps herself around him again. Her lips brush his ear. "Come now, Mr. Holmes, do at least try to pretend that you're enjoying yourself."

 

Her hands brush down his back, deliberately teasing, and Sherlock is forced to admit that the relative anonymity of Carnival is certainly a distinct advantage.

 

Sherlock deliberately relaxes his posture, bringing up both his hands to splay low and possessive across Irene's bare back. He traces his fingers over her spine, damp from the heat and gritty from the glitter, listening to the catch in her breath against his ear. He is perfectly capable of blending in, no matter Irene's implication otherwise. "Perhaps I might, if we were out of this appalling heat."

 

"You could always take something off," Irene challenges, her hands sliding around his collar and down to rest over the highest fastened button of his shirt.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes; sure she will infer the gesture though she cannot see it with how closely they are pressed against one another. "I think you're wearing little enough for the both of us."

 

Irene laughs, musical and calculated, and slips away from him with a practiced twist of her body, leaving gold and glitter in her wake, his fingertips stained with it. "I could always be wearing less."

 

He catches her wrist before she can disappear back into the crowd. She's tanned even under the shimmering bronzes, and he lets his lips curl into a smirk as he rakes his eyes across her. "Too late." She neither resists nor acquiesces as he draws her close enough to breathe her in. She's wearing Cashmir perfume - still, always - until the scent is irrevocably linked with The Woman in his memory, even though he's already busy committing this new iteration of her to his mind palace. Under the feathers, her hair is the color of wine or blood. "You're staying at the Copacabana Palace - Penthouse Suite - you've been to their boutiques - no doubt trying to disguise your tan under the bronzer and gemstones. And how did you convince the Colombian cartels to let you out of the country?" He pauses, considers. "Disguised with one of the dance troupes then?"

 

"They begged me to stay," Irene promises, neither confirming nor denying the rest of his deductions, her body brushing his and her wrist still encircled by his fingers. "On their knees."

 

"Begging you to keep their secrets, no doubt."

 

Irene smiles, sharp. Traces one fingertip over his lips, her nails blood red. "I'll keep their secrets. And their diamonds." Her pulse is faster now - she likes when he figures out her clues almost as much as she likes when she leaves him guessing. "Are you cross I'm not at the Windsor?"

 

It's Sherlock's turn to stiffen. He hates being wrong. "Why should I be?"

 

The gems of her Carnival outfit dig into the silk of his button-up, but to pull away would be obvious and irrelevant at this point.

 

Her lips curve up. "How did you convince Big Brother to pay that check? All in the name of national security, to install a detective in the master suite?"

 

"Hiding in plain sight."

 

Irene arches against him as she arches an eyebrow: checkmate. "I prefer to be as brazen as possible and thus become invisible."

 

She's trapped him, but he can't say as he minds losing this particular stalemate. Sherlock settles his hands at Irene's hips, tracing the line where the jewels set against her skin. "You always do."

 

Admittedly, the carnival does appeal to both of their natures. There is enough sex and violence to provide multitudes of mysteries, easily solved by quick glances that make for an entertaining game of observations as they make their way back to the Copacabana Palace.

 

"The gentleman in the red shirt is thinking of asking us for a threesome," Irene muses as her lips brush the line of his jaw.

 

Sherlock glares at the man in question until he turns away. "Hardly a gentleman - an alcoholic with a penchant for cheating on partners and taxes."

 

"Mmm," Irene purrs. "Obvious. The sunflower girl would be a much better choice."

 

It takes him a moment to spot the girl Irene means, since she's not so much dressed as a sunflower as she is barely dressed at all. "Her? Insecure, low self-esteem. Sexually promiscuous to make up for an absent father. Utterly predictable and boring. Hardly worth your effort - she'll submit to the first person to show her any attention at all."

 

Irene eyes the girl blatantly as they pass, the girl blushing but looking hopeful under the combined weight of their scrutiny. "Oh, but I could teach her so much. She's practically screaming to be tied up properly."

 

"If you want a challenge-"

 

Sherlock is distracted from pointing out the couple to their left by a commotion just in front of them. They squeeze through the frozen crowd to find a man, bloodied on the ground and clutching his side as a few bystanders attempt to help and the majority busy themselves taking pictures with their mobiles.

 

A quick sweep of the ground and man provides more than enough clues. "Defensive and offensive wounds - sloppy, drunk; he got into a fight but didn't spot the knife until it was too late. Mostly superficial cuts, except the one to his midsection. Missed his vital organs though - he'll live. The man with the knife was smaller, quick - likely a dancer. Definitely a dancer - protecting one of the girls in his company -" he spares Irene a sharp look and pointedly ignores the state of his own clothes, "judging by the alarming concentration of glitter."

 

"That one there," Irene points subtly, her breath fast and warm against his throat. "The girl - the one shaking and trying to get back through the crowd. She doesn't fancy the drunk, or she'd be trying to help him. She's trying to sneak away without drawing attention to herself."

 

"She's not doing a very good job." It rankles a bit that Irene found the girl before he could, but then it's hardly a mystery worthy of either of their prolonged attention - not even a body to take to the morgue. Sherlock scans the crowd, refusing to admit that the tingle of anticipation at catching a criminal has more to do with the challenge of racing Irene for clues. "To your left - obvious stains on his shirt - really, if you're going to stab someone and try to flee the scene, you ought to wear red. It's just common sense."

 

"It was a crime of passion," Irene mouths against his neck, undoubtedly making note of his racing pulse. "Are you quite certain you don't just fancy red?"

 

Irene never asks questions she doesn't already know the answer to. It explains her hair choice. Not that he'll give her the satisfaction of agreeing. Sherlock huffs out a breath through his nose. "Passion is no excuse to be sloppy. Even what pass for police here should be able to solve this - it's obvious."

 

"You say that about all police," Irene murmurs, still tucked indiscreetly close at his side. "And then you help them anyway. Go on, then. Play the white hat. Just don't keep me waiting long."

 

There would be a certain appealing danger there. Not in apprehending the knife-wielder - no, it would be painfully easy to catch and disarm him, judging by his gait and profuse perspiration. No, the danger would be letting Irene out of his sight. She was perfectly capable of pulling off a heist, ruining some official's career, or disappearing - or perhaps all three - in the time it would take him to walk the _pol_ _ícia_ through their jobs. Besides, it was Carnival - a non-fatal stabbing would barely warrant an arrest at all.

 

Besides, he's on holiday after cleaning up Mycroft's latest mess.

 

Sherlock tightens his grip on Irene when she makes to slip away. "Boring."

 

Irene's smile is a little surprised and quite genuinely pleased. She drags him quickly through the sweaty, drunken mob and down winding side-streets until they reach the beachside would-be-palace. It is suitably grand, but then Sherlock has seen plenty of actual palaces, and he was hardly impressed by any of them either. Outdated, ostentatious relics, the lot.

 

Of course, Irene Adler walks through the Copacabana Palace as though she owns it, strolling up the carpeted foyer stairs amongst the marble and chandeliers in her barely there costume of paint and jewels, one hand imperiously wrapped around Sherlock's arm.

 

The bellboy rushes to man the lift for them and, when Irene gives a haughty look and purrs, "Penthouse," the boy turns red and redoubles his effort not to so much as glance at them.

 

There's a floor of six private penthouse suites, though naturally Irene has secured the one with the best location and view.

 

A butler is waiting for them at the door, bowing, eyes lowered. "Can I be of service, Miss?"

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. It's all a show - the kind that Irene likes to indulge in but tires Sherlock.

 

" _Deixe-nos_ ," Irene orders with a negligent air in perfect Portuguese: _leave us._

 

Not that he doesn't appreciate the fully stocked bar and lavish high thread-count sheets. Certainly, it was much preferable to their time in Islamabad or Siberia, holed up in little more than hovels. Privately, Sherlock admits that being forced to alternate who chooses the venue is not as much of a hardship as he protested at the time.

 

In his defense, that was for work. This is something entirely different, yet no less engaging.

 

The door closes with barely a click, Irene's footsteps silent on the plush carpet, heels removed. She stops just short of touching him, waiting pointedly for him to make the next move in another of their never-ending games.

 

The night is hot and humid, and the room is no exception, the open windows to the veranda doing little to solve the stifling heat. Sherlock closes the space between them, just as Irene surely expected. He bends his head to lick at her jaw, inhaling the scents lingering about her -underneath her perfume she tastes of the sharp edge of sweat and metallics and a high-end Japanese sunscreen.

 

The heat and her presence leave him light-headed; he feels as though he's high, but The Woman has proved far more addictive than any drug.

 

She makes him bold. She makes him reckless. She makes him cave to the heat simmering dangerously underneath his skin.

 

Her pulse races as Sherlock runs his hands across the line of gems circling her hips, tripping his fingers over them one by one. "How shall I undo you?"

 

"Presuming that you can." Irene laughs, the sound more a challenge than anything else, her own fingers already circling his forearms and unrolling his sleeves. "Are you quite certain we have enough time?"

 

"Are you expecting an interruption?" Sherlock slides his hands around her waist, not bothering to lift his mouth from her neck. He'll never admit that he's not sure how to go about undressing her; even if the gems seem to be less part of a costume than glued to her body, there'll be a solution. Irene likes a challenge, not an inconvenience.

 

"Now what would be the fun in telling you? Go on, Mr. Holmes, make a deduction." She removes her headpiece and casts it aside, shaking out her long, auburn hair; teasing.

 

His pulse spikes at the demand, muttering deductions against her flushed skin. "This room belongs to one of the Colombian Cartels." He lifts his head from a careful study of her collarbone. "Did you kill him or merely hand him over to his rivals?"

 

Irene shoves him far enough back to start undoing his shirt in earnest, one eyebrow arched. "Perhaps _she_ is simply enjoying the festivities." Her eyes are sparkling, delighted at pointing out the _something_ he guessed wrong.

 

Which means everything else was right. "No." He revises his earlier deduction, suddenly certain. "No interruptions." He punctuates his statement by slipping one finger under the string of diamonds circling her back.

 

Her hands are hot against his shoulders as she removes his shirt, steering him further into the room. There's a sofa behind him, facing the window, with its fluttering curtains. "Well then, are you going to undo me, or haven't you figured it out yet?"

 

Sherlock indulges a smirk. Hooks hidden amongst feathers and diamonds; cleverly concealed but not cleverly enough. He traces his fingertips all the way down her sweat-slicked spine. "Just wondering how far the body paint extends."

 

Irene arches into him, feathers and diamonds scraping at his bared skin. "Why? Jealous of the painter?" Her lips and teeth bite across his neck in counterpoint to her costume.

 

He lets his fingers rest over the closure to the bottom of her costume, pointedly, shaking away the image of someone else helping Irene into it as irrelevant. "Flattered at the effort to hide your suntan."

 

Irene withdraws at that, giving him an arch, amused look. "You're presuming I sunbathe in the nude."

 

"You would hardly accept something as common as tan lines." A twist of his fingers and the diamonds and feathers fall away from her skin.

 

Irene steps back and out of the costume, just her diamond-encrusted top left glittering on her skin. She watches his reaction, clearly impressed. "Then I suppose it's my turn to be flattered."

 

Her skin is bronzed all the way to her neatly shorn curls, paint and tan glowing from the heat and the low light.

 

Sherlock slides his hands up her sides to her breasts, paint slicking his palms. It takes more effort to undo the top of her costume, but the heat has weakened the glue holding on the gems and, once he undoes the clasp, it's easy enough to part from her skin. Irene takes a sharp breath at the sensation.

 

He tosses it aside. "I think you meant _impressed_." His eyes trace her skin involuntarily, drawn by the glitter and gold.

 

"You'll have to do better than that to impress me."

 

Sherlock never can resist a challenge, especially from her.

 

He catches his hands around her waist and drags her around, pressing her back across the sofa he'd spotted earlier.

 

Irene's gasp is genuinely surprised, and then she laughs, pleased, and hauls him closer by his trousers, her clever hands already undoing his zip.

 

The press of her skin, hot against his, is overwhelming. He bends his head to nip across her paint-slicked breasts, but Irene catches his hair in a firm grip and drags his mouth to hers.

 

Her mouth is hotter still, desperately claiming his around stuttered groans. The cheers and music of Carnival fade into the background, irrelevant when compared to memorizing each noise Irene makes as he works his hands across her skin.

 

He wrenches free of her grip, tasting his way down her body. The paint is fading under her sweat, that undefinable cocktail of chemicals that tastes of The Woman more surely than Casmir, but the metallic flavor lingers, sharp against his tongue.

 

Her skin is reddened and salty from the glue circling her breasts, and he pays careful attention to the slight abrasions left in place of the diamonds, soothing the skin with his tongue until Irene's nails dig into his back. He can taste the salt of the ocean air lingering on her skin.

 

Her body is a roadmap of the time between their holidays, offering frustratingly vague hints about what he's missed. After all this time, so much of her is still glaring question marks with no answers - the mystery of The Woman absolute.

 

He makes a study of her anyway, always, reading the sun from her tan; dance and swimming from the way her body is lithe and toned. Her muscles quiver under his hands, carefully remapping the spots that make Irene suck in her breath and bite her lip.

 

There's a sense of urgency to the heat of the night, to excesses of Carnival, to the briefness of their meetings and the length of their absences.

 

The sofa is not long enough for what he has in mind, so Sherlock drops to the floor, trailing his way from her breasts to her hips, mouth closing over the sensitive spot just inside her left hip, where the paint gives way to skin.

 

Irene gasps and urges him on, her hands tangling in his hair and his covered in glitter and gold, spreading her thighs.

 

The scent of her is concentrated at the apex of her thighs, arousal musky and thick. He bends his head to taste her, watching her sharp intake of breath as he licks across her damp skin, nudging her more fully open with each stroke of his tongue.

 

Bringing The Woman to completion is a challenge that occupies his full attention - more delicate than even the finest minuet, requiring finesse and force in equal, careful measures.

 

She writhes under his mouth, somehow more intimate to have her like this than in any other way, the favor of her flooding his tongue, and yet she remains as much of a mystery as ever. He grips her golden thighs, pushing them wider, feeling the muscles tense under his hands and smirking with his lips wrapped around her clit.

 

The Woman likes control - both having and relinquishing it - and she prefers a bit of edge to their couplings; especially on nights like this, where their bodies feel ionized toward each other, every touch heated well in excess of room temperature.

 

He watches her carefully, keeping his eyes locked on her lust-filled expression, not even bothering to hide the calculation in his. She likes to watch his mind work, especially when he's between her thighs, tongue pressed inside her.

 

He withdraws to scrape his teeth along the crease of her thigh, careful to avoid the paint as he feels her shiver despite the heat. He presses harder, teeth pinching at her skin until he's sure there will be a mark. Irene makes a choked noise, of pleasure rather than pain, and he moves back to her clit, sucking it into his mouth and circling his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves until she moans, her hands clutching at his hair, demanding more.

 

There's a fine art between too much and not enough, especially with just the use of his mouth - his hands are still stained with the cocktail of chemicals from her body paint. He works her up with calculated strokes, alternating sucking at her clit and thrusting his tongue inside her, pointedly switching to teasing licks each time her muscles start to tighten and quiver, her moans pitched sharper with each denial of her completion.

 

Sherlock drives her higher and higher - but never quite high enough - until her impenetrable exterior cracks and Irene is writhing and moaning under him, close to begging. His own need floods his consciousness, heavy and pressing as he watches her, his tongue thrusting inside her and his nose brushing her clit.

 

The hands in his hair tighten, nails digging into his scalp as Irene drags him firmly up from between her thighs, glaring at him with ice blue irises blown dark by lust. "You're quite the tease, Mr. Holmes," she manages, her voice breathier than she'd probably prefer.

 

He goes willingly enough, settling over her as Irene shoves his trousers down impatiently. "I was just getting started," he corrects, feeling smug. "Or were you so easily impressed?"

 

She shuts him up with a kiss, a frighteningly effective tactic when she licks her taste off his lips and wraps her tongue around his, moaning. Her mouth and skin are pressed against his, all that searing heat making his head swim. He groans raggedly, shifting between her legs to kick off his shoes and trousers. The head of his cock brushes across her slick, swollen sex, and his hips buck instinctively, pressing into her wet, quivering warmth.

 

Irene gasps as he thrusts inside her, her thighs tightening around his and her breasts arching into his chest. Sherlock tears his mouth from hers to take a shuddering breath and thrust in earnest, one hand pressing hers above her head and the other gripping her arse to haul her closer. She's so close already that he can feel her inner muscles fluttering and clenching around his cock, so tight and hot and wet that he feels his breath catch.

 

The nails of Irene's free hand rake along his back and her teeth close over his shoulder; little pinpricks of pain that set his nerve-endings even more aflame. They're both sticky with sweat and paint and the grit of glitter as they move together, rocking and writhing, already desperate; the very air heavy with need.

 

Sherlock shifts his hips, hitching her thigh higher and altering the angle of his thrusts to reach the right spot. Irene shudders and comes hard, her denied orgasm taking her by surprise. Her moans roll with her hips, as her inner muscles squeeze him until Sherlock feels his eyes start to roll back in his head.

 

Keeping careful control of his breathing, he keeps his rhythm. He drops his head to suck and nip at Irene's neck and draw out her orgasm right into the next; her eyes fluttering shut and her nails digging into his back hard enough to draw blood, until he's forced to pull back to watch her.

 

It's hard to focus on anything but the feel of The Woman wrapped around him, open to him in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with her allowing him to see her like this: that breathy orgasmic whimper crossing her lips and her hand laced with his.

 

That sound on her lips - no matter how often he heard it from his phone - makes his whole body tighten with a sort of primal lust that Sherlock would have never believed he was capable of before The Woman.

 

Her eyes open long enough to catch his, something dangerous and satisfied and demanding there, and Sherlock's world tips into hers, his need for her coalescing into a moment of bliss purer than any drug he's ever tried.

 

They collapse there together in the sticky heat, listening to the revelry of Carnival just beyond the veranda. The hot breeze coming through the open windows suddenly feels pleasantly cool against overheated skin.

 

Sherlock lets his head drop to Irene's neck, the rapid beat of her pulse a far more intriguing beat than the drums outside.

 

Her lips brush his ear. "Did you know, Mr. Holmes, that Carnival lasts for ten days?"

 

...


	3. Baker Street: present day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene is installed in Baker Street - they mutually agree on this as the only logical forward step without any discussion whatsoever. It is... easier... than Sherlock had imagined to incorporate Irene into his daily life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support from Lyra and Beverly and Tali! <3

Irene is installed in Baker Street - they mutually agree on this as the only logical forward step without any discussion whatsoever. It is... easier... than Sherlock had imagined to incorporate Irene into his daily life.

 

Of course, her presence in Baker Street inevitably results in a collision of Sherlock's very compartmentalized worlds in a way he definitely does not prefer. He tries to keep his focus on the immediate impacts of that and not the gaping _unknown_ of anything beyond the next few weeks.

 

The most pertinent issue - Irene's safety in London - requires Mycroft's assistance.

 

Sherlock retrieves his mobile and sends a quick text: _Tea?_

 

The invitation should prove unusual enough to pique Mycroft's immediate interest. In this case, Sherlock is of the opinion that a direct visual will be more efficient than any attempts to explain the situation.

 

The rapid flit of expressions across Mycroft's forehead - from shock to horror to anger and finally resignation - is almost worth the unfortunate sentimental vulnerability Irene's condition reveals.

 

Sherlock keeps his expression and voice carefully neutral. "It will obviously be necessary for Irene to have unrestricted movements throughout England for the foreseeable future. I'm sure you can arrange for something to be done to ensure her safety."

 

Irene seems content to merely smirk at Mycroft, as though she has won a contest between them. Undoubtedly, Mycroft will see this as losing. The truth, as always, is far more nuanced and complicated.

 

It takes Mycroft an uncharacteristic three attempts to open his mouth before he is capable of forming words. "Yes, of course," he finally manages, faintly. Drawing his eyes away from Irene's midsection, Mycroft straightens and fixes Sherlock with an unreadable expression. "You do realize, of course, that you shall have to visit Mummy?"

 

Mycroft spins around and exits while Sherlock is still left reeling from his words.

 

Seizing on his fluster, Irene arches one eyebrow and inquires, "Mummy?"

 

When he can find no viable alternative, Sherlock sighs heavily and faces Irene, already calculating the myriad of ways such an undertaking is bound to go wrong. "How do you fancy a trip to the country?"

 

…

 

Sherlock does not bother to ring up his parents before their arrival. What would he say, anyway? No, much better to go unannounced. He doesn't even want to imagine what his mother would come up with if he gave her a chance to prepare. The fawning alone would be unbearable.

 

He is a bit surprised that Irene agreed to this trip in the first place, but he supposes the lure of meeting his parents and exposing embarrassing details of his past must prove too irresistible.

 

They arrive just after tea, with Sherlock's intention being to limit the amount of time they might be subjected to his mother's questions.

 

"Sherlock," his mother opens the door, clearly confused but pleased. Her eyes drift over to Irene and widen subtly. "This is certainly a surprise!"

 

"This is Irene Adler," Sherlock begins introductions with all the typical boredom he ascribes to social mores. "You're going to be grandparents."

 

It is easier to think of it in those terms, rather than the vaguely terrifying notion that he, _Sherlock_ , is going to be a father.

 

"Yes, quite." His mother looks faint but there's an assessing look in her eyes that does not bode well. She bustles them into the house against their will and calls ahead, "Honey, put the kettle on - Sherlock's come and brought a friend - an Irene Adler."

 

Irene catches Sherlock's eye, a smirk just chasing the edge of her lips, and he privately agrees: as benign as his mother may appear, she neglects to provide his father with any sort of warning with what must be a hint of the same viciousness Sherlock and Mycroft inherited.

 

"You have a lovely home, Mrs. Holmes," Irene notes with just the right inflection of flattery, her eyes keenly scanning the photos and knick-knacks littering the hallway acting as unsuspecting clues. Sherlock hurries her along to the kitchen, whishing fervently that he'd been able to convince his mother to take down that appalling photo from his brief and ill-fated stint in rugby.

 

They reach the kitchen in record time, despite Irene's added bulk slowing her normally brisk pace.

 

"Thank you, dear," murmurs his mother, still clearly in shock since she has not yet asked them any questions.

 

It's hard to determine if she's replying to Irene's pandering or thanking his father for setting out the tea. Sherlock takes a breath and steels himself, his grip on Irene's hand probably too tight.

 

His father's eyes widen impossibly as he assesses the situation and shares an indecipherable look with Sherlock's mother. Then he strides briskly toward them and Sherlock ducks back instinctively, his father embracing Irene warmly despite how stiff and surprised she is in his arms.

 

"Hello, my dear. It's lovely to meet you. Do sit down. Tea?"

 

He ferries Irene to a chair, Sherlock trailing awkwardly along - caught now in Irene's grip - and it's not until she's sitting and Sherlock has released the breath he'd been holding that his father turns to him and offers him the same treatment.

 

Sherlock endures his father's overzealous hug and clap on the back with poorer grace than Irene had managed. "Oh, stop making such a fuss, honestly. You're embarrassing yourselves."

 

"We're finally getting a grandbaby - we're allowed to fuss." As usual, it's his mother who answers, her voice cheerful but steely underneath, and the matter has been decided. She turns to Irene. "My boys. I was certain they intended to deprive me of grandchildren simply to be difficult."

 

His parents set them at the table with tea, and it doesn't feel like such a trap until Sherlock realizes that his mother has them neatly pinned there. Irene is having difficulty rising - which surely his mother has accounted for - and Sherlock is not quite prepared to leave her to face his parents alone. Only partially because he fears what she might say more than he fears what they might ask. Definitely because he fears what she might learn.

 

"There is the small matter of Mycroft being _gay_ ," Sherlock bites out, annoyed.

 

He regrets the outburst immediately when Irene arches a knowing eyebrow - and no, he's hardly forgotten that about her either.

 

Worse still, his mother rolls her eyes. "That hardly stops anyone from having babies, dear," she sighs and admits, "though we've all but given up on Myc."

 

Still feeling on edge, he puts on his most sarcastic faux enthusiasm. "Yes, well. Merry Christmas in October!"

 

His mother's eyes narrow predictably, and then an entirely unexpected smile takes over. "Oh, our first Christmas with a grandchild. Won't that be lovely! You'll both have to come out, of course. Stay as long as you like." Knowing his mother, it's not a request.

  
Everything is spiraling out of control at an alarming rate. Christmas? He can't remember the last time he and Mycroft were subjected to Christmas dinner, let alone the entire holiday.

 

While Sherlock is still gaping, Irene smoothly cuts in, "That sounds lovely, Mrs. Holmes. How kind of you to offer."

 

"Of course," his father quickly interrupts, entirely too jovial for the situation at hand. "If you need to spend some time with your family as well, we understand."

 

"It's just me, I'm afraid," Irene demurs and, infuriatingly, he can't tell if this new bit of information is a calculated deception or the truth. "My parents passed away some years ago." His mother puts her hand over her chest, making a sympathetic noise. "No, no, it's quite all right. It's been a long time."

 

His mother's eyes flash protectively. "You poor thing. Well then, it's all settled. You've got us now. After all, you're family."

 

Irene is playing his parents perfectly. He'd be impressed, if he weren't feeling so churlish. The last thing he wants is to have to spend more time at his parents', locked away in the country with his mother's questions and his father's well-meaning idiocy, just so that Irene can ferret out every last embarrassing childhood secret of his. "She's hardly family," he scoffs.

 

His mother's eyes narrow dangerously, but Sherlock sets his jaw and refuses to take it back. It's true. He brought Irene here for proof of her pregnancy before Mycroft could go tattling to Mummy and Daddy. He did not bring her here to con misplaced sympathy out of his parents.

 

"Sherlock Holmes," his mother scolds in a voice that still makes some childish part of him wince. "Come with me right this instant."

 

He has just long enough to watch with horror as his father brings tea to Irene and settles at the table before his mother pushes him none-too-gently out of the kitchen. Irene offers him a sharp smile and a smug little wave from her seated position that neither of his parents witnesses, of course.

 

As soon as they're out of earshot, his mother rounds on him. "The child is yours?"

 

"That's what I said, isn't it? It's hardly the sort of thing one lies about." He can't quite meet her eyes, though. For one terrifying moment, he wonders if she's going to ask for more details. It's hardly the sort of thing he is prone to discuss, let alone with his own mother.

 

His mother nods, leaving him squirming and wondering what else she's gleaned from his answer. "Then she's family. And she's clearly someone important to you, whether you've given her a ring or not. I can count on one hand the number of your friends I've met, and there's never been so much as a hint of anyone more than a friend before now."

 

_A ring?_ Sherlock has to stop his mouth from falling agape in horror. "That's not - she's not -" he stops flustered, and starts again. "Honestly Mother, you don't know the first thing about her."

 

"What I know, Sherlock, is that you've dragged this woman all the way out here to introduce us - in her state! - and you're not about to stand there and try to humiliate her when she's about to have your child! Now you go right back in there and apologize, properly."

 

" _Apologize?!_ "

 

His mother's eyes narrow further and Sherlock takes a calculated step backward. "Yes, Sherlock. Apologize."

 

He's clearly lost this argument already. Sherlock turns with a growl, jaw set, and marches back into the kitchen, where Irene is leaned conspiratorially close with his father discussing something bound to be appallingly embarrassing, judging by her slight smile and keen eyes.

 

They look up when he enters, his mother right behind him, blocking his exit. He'll admit that he's been behaving a bit poorly. Something about being around his parents seems to bring it out in him. "Sorry," he bites out. "That was... uncalled for."

 

"An apology, how delightfully unexpected." Irene's eyes are lit with amusement. "Please don't worry, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. I'm quite well-acquainted with Sherlock's wicked tongue. And I'm sure he will more than make it up to me later."

 

Her tone is carefully neutral, but Sherlock feels his cheeks flame at her precise wording and the double entendre. He shoots her a pointed look: _Not in front of my parents_ , but doubts that will do anything but encourage her. She's having far too much fun at his expense, and Irene does take her punishments seriously.

 

Sherlock sits stiffly next to her, glaring when Irene's leg brushes his under the table. "See, Mother? It's all perfectly fine. Irene and I have... an understanding..."

 

His parents exchange a pleased look, clearly missing the obvious subtext, which is - for once - a relief. His mother joins them at the table, her hands clasped eagerly around her tea. "Now then, tell me everything."

 

...

 

Mrs. Hudson is, if possible, worse.

 

His landlady is insufferably nosy and he only succeeds in concealing Irene's presence long enough to ensure that Mycroft has made the necessary arrangements for her safety, which is to say: he manages a full 20 hours from Irene's arrival before Mrs. Hudson appears at the door with two cups of tea and a pinched look on her face.

 

Irene is in his chair in his dressing gown, resting a book over the prominent swell of her stomach. She offers Mrs. Hudson a benign, enigmatic smile as she holds a hand out for the tea, and it occurs to Sherlock that he has no idea if Irene and Mrs. Hudson have ever been properly introduced. "How kind of you, Mrs. Hudson."

 

It's Sherlock who steals the cups from a frozen Mrs. Hudson - clearly she'd known he'd had a guest but not who or in what state - and passes it negligently to Irene in difference to her reduced mobility but still keenly aware that he is serving her. "Irene Adler," he introduces, begrudgingly.

 

Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson manages to unfreeze. Her eyes dart between Sherlock and Irene - particularly her stomach - in obvious confusion before finally pinning Sherlock down. "I thought you were gay, dear."

 

He bites out, "Is it really necessary to state the obvious, Mrs. Hudson?"

 

"Still, have you told John yet?"

 

Sherlock throws up his hands and wishes keenly that Mrs. Hudson would take the tray and just leave. He rakes them through his hair to avoid thinking about the fact that, yes, he supposes he will have to tell John. He can imagine how well that will go over.

 

Irene laughs, short and genuine, discarding her book and setting her saucer pointedly on the end table - she finds it graceless to use her stomach as one and enjoys making Sherlock fetch what she cannot reach - before settling back into his chair, somehow only more scandalous with her pregnancy than before. "If it helps: I thought I was gay as well."

 

Sherlock glares. Helpful is the last thing Irene intends to be. She despises the downward mobility of her increasing girth and blames Sherlock explicitly. And never mind that such a situation clearly required both of their input.

 

Mrs. Hudson blinks and then offers Irene a wistful smile. "So was I, dear, one summer in the seventies." And just like that, completely uninvited, she settles on the other chair and leans forward to pat Irene's hand. "Now, look at you, in such a state. This one," she motions toward where Sherlock is pacing irritably, "hasn't left you to manage all on your own, has he?"

 

There's something fiercely protective in the way Mrs. Hudson is hovering over Irene. Of course, Irene is enjoying herself immensely, corrupting the affections of his landlady. First his parents and now Mrs. Hudson. He feels petulant. "I fetched her tea!"

 

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes at him. "No, dear. I fetched her tea. You could hardly find the kettle in the mess of this place. You'll have to tidy up properly, with a little one coming. No more thumbs in the crisper!"

 

While Sherlock is still gaping - it's a bit farther than he's gotten in his planning, what with telling John and tidying the flat and the idea that there will actually be a physical infant present in a few short weeks - Mrs. Hudson gets to her feet, picks up the tray, and continues blithely. "Oh, a baby in the house - how exciting!" She squeezes Sherlock's shoulder as she goes past. "Though don't expect me to be up all hours with the little one - I'm your landlady, dear, not your nanny."

 

Sherlock tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, contemplating the complete dissolution of his carefully crafted life.

 

Irene merely laughs.

 

...

 

In the end, he texts Mary and asks her to bring John round for tea. It does seem to be rather the theme. And he only concedes because he is certain that Mrs. Hudson or Irene will if he does not act immediately: Mrs. Hudson out of some sort of misguided attempt to help, and Irene to be as pointedly unhelpful as possible.

 

The Watsons arrive in approximately twenty-four minutes - six later than expected, which means Shirley was upset - leaving just enough time for Sherlock to suffer the indignity of _tidying up_ while Irene dresses.

 

He can hear them greeting Mrs. Hudson on their way up.

 

Sherlock adjusts the tea tray as his gaze jumps around his flat, mentally editing every surface into before and after images. His skull, he decides, will stay on the mantle.

 

Irene is returned to his chair, rereading his copy of Dante's Inferno.

 

Mary enters first, balancing Shirley on her hip. "John and Mrs. Hudson are just behind me - she's bringing up biscuits." She notices Irene almost immediately, her easy smile slipping into a momentary frown before she recovers. "Oh. Hello."

 

The two women eye each other with calculating, interested scrutiny.

 

Sherlock sighs, straightening his blazer and bracing himself for John's entrance. "Mary Watson. Irene Adler. Though neither of those are the names on your birth certificates."

 

John enters with Mrs. Hudson trailing eagerly behind, the old woman garnering far too much enjoyment from Sherlock's discomfort. As is his habit, John is already speaking before he's through the door. "All right, Sherlock, we're all here. What was so important and definitely not dangerous?"

 

The rest of the room collectively holds their breath, though Irene looks more amused than anything. She's impossible to miss in the center of the room, her rounded figure only accentuated by her seated position. John's gaze falls on her and freezes there, his jaw working silently for a long moment as emotions flit openly across his dumbfounded expression.

 

John looks like, were his wife and child not present, he might punch Sherlock again. "Seriously? Why am I always the last to know?"

 

Irene smirks. "I don't know, wasn't it your idea, Dr. Watson? Hamish, was it?"

 

Mary glances between the other occupants of the room with a knowing, delighted grin, before settling her attention on her husband and Sherlock, still standing at odds. "Hamish, really? Look at the two of you, sharing baby names like a couple of old hens."

 

Sherlock scoffs. "We are not naming our child Hamish." He blinks, and then frowns, turning to Irene. "Is it even a boy?"

 

John's expression has morphed into something positively gobsmacked.

 

Irene arches one eyebrow. "I didn't ask." But she has that infuriatingly smug expression on that he can never decipher.

 

Sherlock inclines his head. "We'll be finding out soon enough, I should expect."

 

"Oh for god's sake, Sherlock," John explodes, apparently having regained limited power of speech. "You can't possibly be this - _this_. You're having a _baby_! With _Irene Adler_!"

 

Sherlock blinks. "Yes. I should have thought that much was glaringly obvious, even to you, John."

 

It's perhaps a bit harsh, but it always does the trick to snap John out of one of his states. Even if sometimes it gets Sherlock punched. He's almost certain John won't punch him now that he's about to be a father. At least 70%.

 

John sinks helplessly to his chair. "Tell me this is a joke, Sherlock. This has to be a joke."

 

Shirley wiggles in Mary's grasp and Mary releases her, the toddler making her careful way to her father and tugging at his leg until John - still looking a bit stunned - reaches down on autopilot to lift her and settle his child in his lap.

 

Sherlock wonders if that sort of parental autopilot comes naturally and, even if it does, whether either he or Irene are capable of it.

 

"Not a joke, no," Irene delights in confirming, shifting in Sherlock's chair in a way that only serves to further emphasize her state of pregnancy. "Carnival, actually."

 

Mary perks up, looking entirely too devious for anything good to come of it. "Carnival, really?"

 

"Well that explains it," Mrs. Hudson interjects. "I went twice in the eighties. Quite the party! The drugs and the nudity - you wouldn't believe..."

 

"I've never been," Mary admits, nose crinkling in amusement.

 

Irene is leaning forward now, about to interject, and Sherlock shares a look of abject horror with John. "For god's sakes, don't encourage her." He glares at all three women and purposefully doesn't clarify who he means. He'd prefer not to hear about another of Mrs. Hudson's debaucheries, but he'd also really quite like to avoid Irene's retelling of their time in Carnival, and John appears to be in complete agreement on both counts.

 

Mrs. Hudson pats Mary's hand and offers Irene a wink. "Another time then, girls."

 

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Sherlock snaps.

 

Nibbling on a biscuit, Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, feigning innocence.

 

But there's no time to force the issue before John launches into more questions. Honestly, he's nearly as bad as Sherlock's mother. "Can we please _focus_." He lowers his voice at the reproachful looks Mrs. Hudson and Mary scold him with, turning to Sherlock. "There's going to be a baby, Sherlock. An actual living, breathing baby. Do you realize that? Have you two made any practical arrangements at all? There are things you'll need, baby things-!"

 

"You can have most of Shirley's older things - cot, toys, clothes if you have a girl," Mary offers, and John shoots her a bewildered, betrayed look.

 

That would certainly be simpler, if Irene would agree. To forestall her likely protest, Sherlock agrees for them. "Thank you, Mary. I've ordered some items online, and Mrs. Hudson has even volunteered as child-minder, should we require her. Admittedly there are still arrangements to be made, but I have only just found out, after all."

 

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your nanny," Mrs. Hudson protests, but it is even weaker than her usual fare - she's clearly quite excited for a baby to occupy her hours with.

 

Irene arches an eyebrow when Sherlock admits to his online shopping, carefully concealed on his mobile as he revised his research on prams and cots. Shirley is not that old but the market and recommendations do change rapidly for child-rearing. "I've already made all the necessary arrangements," Irene interjects, amused.

 

"Naturally," he'd expected nothing less of her and had ordered items accordingly, though he is curious as to whether she'd scheduled a delivery date for the baby supplies or intends to phone in once she goes into labor.

 

Still ill at ease, and apparently behind on processing the conversation, John demands, "You only just found out?" He gives Irene a cross look, as though he's somehow offended on Sherlock's behalf.

 

"I've been the one doing all the heavy lifting, quite literally," Irene points out - her increased girth and decreased mobility still a rather touchy subject. "And I've had arrangements to make. There is hardly any need for Sherlock to be involved until it's born but these matters can be frustratingly imprecise."

 

Sherlock cocks his head at Irene, curious about her second reference to arrangements. He has no doubt that she means far more than nappies - he wouldn't be surprised if her reinstatement to London is all part of some revised plan of world domination. Irene is not the type to sit and twiddle her thumbs just because she is gestating or caring for an infant.

 

He _does_ wish that she'd told him sooner for reasons that are entirely illogical. Irene is right, of course, there's not anything for him to do, really, until the child is born. But, aside from the fact that Irene has 233 days worth of additional planning and processing time, he feels shockingly protective of their child already. He's sure Irene has been involved in all sorts of highly dangerous situations in that time - part of her arrangements, no doubt - and he wishes that he'd been there to offer backup, if nothing else.

 

Despite what Mrs. Hudson seems to believe, he would even have been perfectly capable of fetching her tea. Though perhaps not rubbing her feet, as Irene would be positively insufferable were he in such a submissive position, regardless of the motivation.

 

Still, he is not about to admit to _sentiment_ in the present company - or ever - if he can avoid it. "Frankly, John, you were utterly useless during Mary's pregnancy. I don't see what the point of me knowing sooner would have been."

 

Mary and Irene exchange a look of comradery over the uselessness of the other sex that should probably be quite alarming. Sherlock imagines they'll have much in common. Mary offers her faux-sheepish grin. "Sorry, John, but you really were a bit rubbish about it all." She shrugs easily and confides to Irene, "He had worse morning sickness than I did."

 

Mrs. Hudson sips her tea and cheerfully adds, "He couldn't touch a bite to eat for weeks, bless."

 

While John is still sputtering, Mary continues blithely, "There won't be much of an age gap - Shirley and the baby can play. That is - you are staying, once the baby comes?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course she's staying." His tone is perhaps a bit too vehement because both John and Irene turn to him in surprise.

 

Sherlock holds his breath, wondering if he was wrong about Irene yet again and she really does intend to leave with their child once she's free of her convalescence.

 

After a tense moment, Irene confirms, "Of course I'm staying. I've already been invited to Christmas dinner with the Holmes'. I'm quite looking forward to watching Mycroft attempt to be polite from across the table."

 

"It might even put him off his Christmas pudding," Sherlock agrees, suddenly feeling considerably merrier at the prospect.

 

Shirley wiggles free of John's loose grasp and, apparently fascinated with the new adult in the room and her unusual shape, stumbles pointedly toward Irene.

 

The moment Irene realizes there is a toddler headed in her direction, she shifts uncomfortably, stiffening and - once she remembers that rising from a seated position is no longer a simple task - spears Sherlock with a tense, subtly horrified look, demanding that he rescue her from the indignity of a child crawling all over her. "Sherlock."

 

He crosses quickly to scoop up Shirley and deposit her back in an amused Mary's waiting arms. "Well then, Shirley, have you memorized the dictionary yet?"

 

John has that pinched look again and it takes Sherlock a moment to determine the cause. Irene's aversion to the Watson's offspring, naturally. But it's not some parental umbrage - rather, John appears to be taking this as some sort of black mark against Irene's mothering.

 

While Sherlock is inclined to agree that Irene Adler will have a unique parenting style, she's never shown an aversion to messes and, while his skills rely primarily on empirical evidence, Irene's skillset is based in reading emotions and people. She's capable of at least feigning far more compassion than Sherlock is.

 

But then perhaps that's John's concern. That neither of them are properly suited to the upkeep of a child. Which is ridiculous - his parents managed both him and Mycroft, and they were spectacularly ill-suited to the task. At least Sherlock and Irene will be on an intellectual par with their offspring. He feels a sudden rush of protectiveness toward said offspring - a firm certainty that the best and only place for it will be with them, no matter how unconventional they might be.

 

"She can't read yet," John heaves a long-suffering sigh. "She's two."

 

Sherlock shrugs, making his way back toward Irene to stand guard at her chair. Not at all because he simply wants to be closer to her. That would be idiotic. "I've presumed that Mary's genetics are dominant."

 

Irene smirks while Mary stifles a laugh into Shirley's hair. The toddler giggles happily at the attention, unaware of her father's annoyance.

 

John rolls his eyes, not to be distracted. "That's definitely not how genetics works, Sherlock, which you'll be finding out soon enough."

 

He's perfectly aware of how genetics works - he's spent far more time on the subject than John's medical degree would have done, if it had touched upon it at all. And it proves to be an exceedingly fascinating experiment: to see what aspects of his and Irene's will be inherited - how recombination will alter and combine them.

 

Whatever other traits their offspring inherits, he's certain it will be reading by two. He certainly was, and there's no doubting Irene's intellect. He shares a look with Irene, who seems equally intrigued at the implications. "We'll see."

 

"You two, with a baby..." John shakes his head, sounding a bit faint.

 

"Yes," Mary interjects, forestalling the new questions that are already forming behind John's dumbfounded expression. "And we ought to take care of our own and leave them to get ready."

 

John lets himself be dragged to his feet by his wife and daughter, still apparently too overwhelmed to properly protest. "But..."

 

Mary turns back to Sherlock and Irene with a wink and a grin as she manhandles her husband neatly out the door. "Congratulations both of you, really."

 

Mrs. Hudson takes the time to come pat him on the shoulder before she toddles elsewhere, likely to follow any possible gossip from John and Mary's side. "Well, I suppose that went better than expected. Not to worry, dear, he'll come around."

 

Sherlock finds that his hand is clenched into a fist around the leather of his chair, knuckles turning white.

 

Irene arches her head back to look at him, smirking, and Sherlock's hand relaxes instinctively. "What a pity - I didn't even get a chance to ask Dr. Watson to be my midwife."

 

...

 

Both Irene and Sherlock would have preferred a private birth. They'd had quite a spectacular row over Sherlock's insistence that natural home births were recommended by the most scientific studies of such things, and Irene's insistence on treating giving birth like a trip to a luxury spa in a foreign country where she had access to all the best drugs. Sherlock could hardly fault her that and, since she was the one doing the actual birthing anyway, she overruled his suggestions decisively.

 

In the end they settled on the hospital Mary and Sherlock had decided upon for Shirley's birth - despite John's ludicrous protests that he was the actual doctor and should have a say. It had the lowest rates of mother child mortality in London, and Sherlock had already suitably vetted and threatened Irene's doctor, much to her amusement.

 

Still, when it came to the actual birth, they'd mutually agreed to head to the hospital with as minimal fuss as possible.

 

Unfortunately, Irene's increased size corresponded with a decreased level of stealth. When her contractions were frequent enough to warrant hospital intervention, they were not exactly silent in their efforts to exit the flat. Not that Sherlock was anxious - that was a useless emotion implying he or Irene lacked control over the situation - but simply that he felt it was prudent to reach the hospital quickly, and was distracted balancing Irene and her hospital bag.

 

Equally unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson's hearing was both selective - she often pretended not to hear his requests for a biscuit or tea - and acute, showing no sign of diminishing with age.

 

She met them at the bottom of the stairs, all aflutter despite it being the middle of the night. "Oh, is it time them? You two hurry along. I'll ring John and Mary."

 

She indeed phoned the Watsons. John phoned Mycroft, who Sherlock dearly hoped had been driven to midnight snacking by the news, as he had been vindictive enough to not only phone but send a car round for their parents.

 

Subsequently, when Sherlock emerges from the hospital room to locate ice for his hand - Irene is keen to share her pain, particularly since she considers the whole ordeal to be entirely his fault - he is met with a full waiting room.

 

Someone - John, almost certainly, though Mary can never be ruled out entirely - had even phoned Molly and Lestrade. Clearly John has been talking out of turn about Irene's condition because they both look tired and nervous but not nearly as shocked as if they'd just learned of Sherlock's impending fatherhood.

 

"Oh, for God's sake, was all this really quite necessary?"

 

Lestrade is clutching a stuffed bear from the hospital gift shop and a helium balloon that reads: _Congratulations!_

 

"You look ridiculous, Gary," Sherlock snaps, on edge. He does not enjoy watching Irene in pain, and it galls him that there is nothing he can do about it.

 

He reluctantly admits to himself that Irene's insistence on an epidural is fortuitous, as he isn't certain how long he could stand this otherwise. It irritates him even more that she is holding up far better than he is, labor pains and all.

 

"Sherlock," John chastises. He is right, snapping at Gerald is a bit _not good_ , but he can't be bothered to care.

 

"Leave him be," his father unexpectedly comes to his defense and the others quiet. "How is Irene?"

 

"She's fine," Sherlock states ruefully. "I can't say the same for my hand. I've only popped out for some ice."

 

Actually, Irene had thrown him out to get some air and stop correcting and belittling the nurses.

 

Sherlock ignores Mycroft's smug look. His parents have a quick, silent conversation, and his father stands. "I think I saw ice down this hallway. Shall we?"

 

Thankful for the reprieve from the others, Sherlock offers a quick nod and follows his father down the indicated hallway. He doesn't like being away from Irene and not knowing exactly how she is progressing, and he certainly doesn't trust the so-called medical professionals.

 

Which is how Irene ends up giving birth to their daughter in the same hospital where Shirley had been born and where Sherlock had twice been treated for his gunshot wound.

 

It took them two weeks to decide on her surname (Adler-Holmes) but only two seconds to pick the rest - for once too much in agreement to be contrary.

 

Josephine Hamish Adler-Holmes is born at dawn on 10 November. Both Sherlock and Irene are exhausted and - if either of them were entirely honest, clearly nervous to have an infant - an innocent - entirely dependent on their dubious-at-best morals.

 

Watching Irene hold this mysterious little creature - she clearly takes after Irene already - twists at some part of Sherlock he didn't know existed. Irene is radiant, victorious - impossibly both softer and fiercer in motherhood.

 

When he at last holds their daughter in his arms - despite the fact that he knows logically it's just the evolutionary imperative to propagate and protect one's genetic material, and despite the fact that his right ring finger is almost certainly broken - for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes feels utterly at peace.


End file.
